Catch Me When I Fall
by Fernandidilly-yo
Summary: Five times that Tim Drake did not wake up in his own bed.


**Who would have thunk I'd ever do one of these ' _five-times'_ fics? Not me, I didn't thunk...**

 **Disclaimer- I just borrowed the characters.**

* * *

 _ **Catch Me When I Fall-**_

The first thing that Tim realized upon waking, was that he was definitely not in his own bed.

And with that realization came a bout of panic in the teenager's gut. Muscles tensing as he prepared himself for the worst. His head felt a bit foggy like he had been dosed with something, but Tim couldn't recall what exactly he had been hit with or what he had been doing when his apparent drugging had occurred.

Upon further inspection, Tim found that he felt no bonds holding him down and he was in fact, in a bed with blankets and pillows and everything, _the whole shebang_. The next thing Tim noticed was that he could smell _bacon_ and then a familiar voice was singing obnoxiously in Spanish from the next room.

Tim's blue eyes snapped open.

 _Jason._

He was at Jason's.

The teenager blinked, glancing around for a moment to orientate himself, he was at one of Jason's safehouses, the one by the docks that had an awesome view of the bay, but also had the misfortune of a gaping hole in the ceiling, that Jason, (being Jason) had very crudely duct-taped a tarp over and called good.

Tim huffed to himself as he pushed up from the bed, the springs groaning under his weight. The anxiety that had pooled into his stomach was now gone, replaced with a curiosity of _how the heck_ he had ended up with Jason in the first place.

Tim's limbs were fumbly and stiff, (definitely had been drugged with something) making him feel like a toddler as he stumbled his way out of the bedroom and into the living/kitchen area, where Jason was still singing in Spanish and flipping bacon in a pan.

"Does the fact, that I feel _relieved_ at waking up here, say something about me- _as a person_?" Tim asks as he leans his weight on the doorframe, crossing his arms over the shirt that he now realizes is not his own.

Jason glances over his shoulder, shrugging a little as he waves his spatula in the air in gesture, "only that you need some serious help." It's a joke, but Jason says it without a hint of humor, turning back to the food and scraping it off the pan and onto an awaiting plate.

Tim takes the remaining steps forward, having to lean on the wall and then the counter, as he forces his uncooperative legs to move. "Not that I'm not like, _grateful_ ," Tim starts, taking a seat on a rickety barstool, one leg shorter than the other three, making it wobble under the teenager. "But why am I here?"

Jason slides a plate of eggs and bacon over to Tim, leaning down on his elbows so that he is eye level as he answers, "you got tranqed," the older states, shoving a bit of eggs into his mouth before he says, "lucky I was there, or'ya would'a hadda unpleasant meeting with the pavement."

Tim bites the inside of his cheek, nodding as he takes a piece of bacon between his fingers. It smells _so_ good but it is _so_ greasy, he shouldn't be eating this garbage, today is _not_ his cheat day (he has been saving that special occasion for one beautiful _eclair doughnut_ ) Tim has a freakin' repertoire to upkeep _darnit!_

But screw it, one bad meal isn't going to _kill_ Tim, back in his Titan days when he had still worn the singular 'R', Tim had eaten pretty much whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. Of course, that was before the whole _missing spleen_ fiasco and trying to better himself now that he was on his own.

"I got tranqed," Tim ponders around his food, that makes sense with the way he feels off balance and slightly fuzzy, his mind clear but his body unsteady. Something clearly meant to take him out _physically_ but not mentally.

Jason doesn't really answer, just continues eating as he gives Tim an eyebrow wiggle in response. And what is weirder- that Tim feels totally comfortable with _Jason_ , or that Tim is fairly sure Jason feels the same way about _him?_

"You get the guy?" Tim decides to ask, because really, he doesn't need the details of how Jason got his unconscious body to this safehouse, before apparently re-dressing him, and tucking Tim into bed. (Not like this hasn't happened before, or even in reversal, it's just one of the hazards of being a vigilant) But unless it is necessary, Tim doesn't think he needs the specifics.

"Not gonna let some guy roofie'ya and get away with it." Is Jason's simple answer.

Tim nods, biting back a smile. "Good."

* * *

The stone floor is cold under Tim's bare cheek, and the cuffs binding his wrists and ankles together are digging into his skin painfully. Pulling his body into a backward curve, a long metal rod reaching from his trapped ankles and up to the metal encircling his wrists, forcing Tim's body to bend in an odd and uncomfortable position.

The ground shudders as a loud _'boom!'_ sounds from not too far away, which is what probably woke Red Robin in the first place. He's in what looks like an underground base, and assuming Tim's hunch is correct (which it is, more times than not) he would pass this off as another one of Ra's al Ghul's tests. (Oh joy)

Tim shifts, trying to roll off of his stomach and to his side, but it's almost impossible with the way he's restrained. The teenager grumbles to himself, straining his muscles to move in a way they are not meant to. And for a moment Tim wishes he was Dick because goodness knows the man would be able to get out of this with his lack of spine and inhuman flexibility.

Another explosion shakes the base, rocks chipping from the ceiling and falling around Red Robin dangerously. "Freakin Ra's," Tim mumbles to himself angrily. He's starting to get sick of these incessant tests, (he'd already suffered enough of those in his early years as Robin)

Clearly though, (if the falling debris and loud explosions weren't a big enough hint) Tim needs to hurry this process up and get his way out of here before he's crushed to death by a plummeting boulder. (What an anticlimactic way to die) And then, if Tim's lucky it will just be a maze of booby-traps and falling wreckage from that point on…but if the teenager is being _realistic_ , (going off of Ra's track record) then that means there will be more to this trial, probably a good number of Ninjas involved, and some sort of ethical dilemma where Tim has to question his morals and belief system (again).

Ah, Wednesdays _amirite?  
_ Or wait…maybe it's Friday…which means Tim missed that 'very important' board meeting over at WE.  
And if so…well, Tam is going to _kill_ Tim. (That is if falling debris or Ninjas don't get to Tim first. Which in all honesty, might be the better way to go. Tam is _scary_ )

It's been about ten minutes of Tim rolling around on the floor like a moron, trying to find anything even slightly sharp to pick the cuffs with, and the teen is starting to get desperate. The explosions are getting bigger and closer, and pretty soon one of these rocks is going to hit its mark, and there isn't much Red Robin can do about that with his limited mobility.

Suddenly the base rocks to the side with another shuddering ' ** _boom_** ', Red Robin yelps, gritting his teeth as a rock smacks into his skull, making Tim's ears ring and his head pound. The teen lets out a pained noise, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, and in that same instant, a familiar figure slams open the large doors leading into the crumbling room and marches in determinedly.

Tim glances up, blinking the spots out of his eyes, letting the colors of red, yellow, green, and black, swim into his vision to make a solid picture. Red Robin doesn't think he has _ever_ been this happy to see Damian in his _life_.

"Tt," Robin huffs, coming over to crouch beside Tim, his cape swishing out behind him. "I do not comprehend my Grandfather's obsession with you, Drake, you are clearly incompetent," he says, but the words don't sound angry, just exasperated.

Tim should probably be irritated with the fact that it is _Damian_ of all people that has found him completely useless and vulnerable on the floor, but Tim just can't find it in himself to care. "And _hello_ to you too," Tim says instead, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, "how'd you find me?"

Damian pulls a sharp lockpicker from his utility belt, inspecting it before beginning his work to free Tim from the horrible cuffs. "I placed a tracer on you," he says nonchalantly like that is a normal sentence. (Well in this family…it kind of _is_ )

Tim's eyebrows furrow as he stares confused at the shuddering ground for a moment, "last time I saw you was… _what_ , like two days ago? Where could you possibly put a tracker on me that I wouldn't notice for that long?" And yes, Tim should probably be asking why Damian felt the _need_ to place a tracer on Tim, or perhaps Tim should be angry that he hadn't noticed the device. But really, in the end, Tim is just grateful. Damian Wayne shows that he cares in very odd ways…very odd.

Damian huffs, freeing Tim's right hand and going to the left one. "I have been placing trackers on you imbeciles for _years_ ," he states, ignoring Tim's squawked cry of 'is privacy _nothing_ to you!?' and going on, "and it was _four_ days ago, not two."

Tim pauses for a moment, pinching his lips together, and wincing as another loud explosion goes off. "So that means today _is._..?"

"Saturday," Damian answers, finishing Tim's wrists and going down to work on his ankles, seeming bored and unbothered by the falling wreckage all around them.

Tim sits up, rubbing at his temple as a wave of dizziness washes over him. "So yesterday was… _Friday_."

Damian huffs, "that is traditionally how the days of the week transpire, _yes_ ," the younger states irritably.

"Tam is going to murder me," Tim says, more to himself than to Damian.

"That is a distinct possibility, Drake," Damian says as he picks the last lock, helping a very unstable Red Robin to his feet. "I do not envy you."

* * *

He comes back to himself with a wet gasp, feeling like a man drowning under the weight of his own mind. The nightmares, the visions, the _hallucinations_ , still swirling behind his eyelids and making Tim shudder where he lay.

Touch is what comes first for the teenager. He's being squeezed around the waist, but not to the point of hurting, almost like a hug, an embrace. Tim can faintly feel the way the floor is moving under him, shifting and solid, but almost soft and malleable under Tim's body. Whatever he is on, is warm, which Tim is grateful for, he's freezing all the way down into his core, icicles in place of bone and slush instead of tissue.

Taste and smell come next, and what had been ash and acid within Tim's mind, coating his tongue and filling his nose, now transforms into a familiar scent of aftershave, Kevlar, and sweat. His mouth tastes like blood, but he's not choking on it, not drowning in it, so Tim thinks that's alright for now.

Sounds slowly filter into Tim's brain, the _'plink plonk'_ of Gotham's rain coming from somewhere outside. His own ragged breathing, heavy and thick from his chest, labored and panted with the hint of a sob on the end. A soft voice shushing him from above, saying words of reassurance and sweet nothings that Tim's foggy mind can't quite fathom at the moment.

So, with his senses back, Tim braces himself and opens his eyes. Coming to find his face smushed against the blue Nightwing insignia, and surprisingly Tim feels relieved to see it in place of the Bat symbol he thought he would find there. Tim's hands are clutching at any excess fabric his desperate fingers can find on his brother's uniform, pulling and tugging in a needy way.

" _Dick,"_ the teenager whispers, the word sounding more choked and distressed than he had meant for it to be.

Dick shifts his arms from around Tim, still holding him, hugging the younger tightly to his chest here on the floor, before bringing a hand up and running it through Tim's damp hair in a soothing motion.

"You're okay," Dick reassures because he has always been good at this. Has always surpassed Bruce when it comes to times of comfort and vulnerability. Because Dick was the first of them, was the original Robin, and he understands, he knows what it is like.

"We're all okay," he goes on, knowing what Tim fears, what he worries over every day, what at one time, had been a very real reality, one that Tim had been powerless to combat. "I got you, Timmy."

And Tim lets out a shuddering breath, allows himself to snake his arms around his brother and just _cling_ and hold on as tightly as he possibly can, to the point that Tim _knows_ it must be uncomfortable for Dick. But Tim doesn't care, because the teen rarely permits himself to be this self-indulgent, never lets himself cling like he so often needs too.

"I _miss_ you," Tim says, and it's spoken so softly he isn't even sure if Dick will hear the admission over the sound of the pouring rain.

But then the older squeezes back and says, "I'm right here Timmers."

And that isn't what Tim meant; because though he might be in Dick's arms, wrapped up in his brother's warmth, Tim still can't help feeling that they are very far away from one another, almost completely out of reach, drifting further and further away from each other.

But Tim doesn't voice those feelings, pushes them down as he shoves his nose into Dick's collarbone, taking in his comforting scent, allowing himself just this moment to hold onto someone else for strength.

"You're okay Tim," Dick murmurs again, almost like he's reassuring himself just as much as he is Tim, repeating those words, a mantra, a whispered song. And maybe he keeps echoing the same sentences of comfort because he knows just as well as Tim does, that they are nothing more than a lie.

* * *

He stirs awake with a light groan, feels the tips of someone's soft fingers brush his too long bangs away from his forehead in a gentle way to wake him up even further.

"Bedtime," Cass whispers as Tim opens his blurry eyes, finding the tiny living room now dark and the TV turned off. The large bowl of popcorn empty and their root-beer floats left discarded on the floor.

"I was a'ready 'sleep, Cass," Tim mumbles, letting his eyes fall closed again, he feels full and satisfied, he's fine with sleeping on the hardwood floor, it wouldn't be the worst place Tim has slept, wouldn't even make the top fifty. "Di'n't have to wake me."

But Cass doesn't move from her crouch in front of the younger, just presses her fingers into his shoulder in a light jab, before tickling a rather sensitive spot on his neck.

Tim glares, though with how sleepy he is, he doubts that it looks anywhere near as threatening as he would hope for it too, plus this is _Cass_ , and Cass could kick the crap out of Tim, he doesn't scare her. "Evil," the younger mumbles.

She smiles the expression lightening up her dark eyes and showing one of her dimples. "Can't sleep on floor," she informs Tim, rapping her knuckles on the hardwood to prove her point, "sore," she finishes.

"Uncomfortable," Tim supplies the word he knows she is looking for.

"Yes, _that_ ," Cass agrees before standing up and pulling Tim with her. "Bedtime," she repeats, the word doesn't sound like an order though, it betrays her fondness, her amusement, and for some reason it makes Tim smile softly to himself.

And then Cass is dragging Tim down the hall and into her bedroom before depositing him on her queen-sized mattress with a light push.

Cass' apartment isn't huge, it isn't anything really, it's bear and clean, small but not cozy. It's almost like Cassandra isn't making herself a place here, it's not a home, it's just a house, a bunch of meaningless rooms strewn together. It reminds Tim of his childhood, a mausoleum rather than a home, feeling like an empty shell.

But maybe Tim is projecting, misinterpreting the situation entirely, letting his desires paint a picture that isn't actually there. Though, Cass really doesn't seem to be treating this living arrangement like it is permanent. Tim sure hopes so, he would give a lot of things in order for Cass to move back to Gotham, Hong Kong is too far away, and Tim misses Cass, wants her back home where she belongs.

A moment later Cassandra is crawling into bed with Tim, bringing the covers over them both and laying one of her dainty but deadly hands over the teenager's wrist, slinging one of her legs over Tim's own in a haphazard cuddle. Because Cass will always know where or when to touch, just in the same way Tim has never been able to figure out _how_. But that's okay because where Tim lacks the knowledge of human touches and little kindnesses, he makes up for it with words and facts like Cass is still learning how to do for herself.

They are both learning, both trying and adapting, teaching one another how to do those things they were never shown how to do in the first place, and that's okay.

"Need to sleep more," Cass tells Tim through the darkness, her hand squeezing his wrist just a little tighter.

"You _always_ say that," he retorts, though there's a smirk on his face, one that Cass can probably see even in the shadows.

"Always true," she replies.

And Tim huffs out something that might be a laugh, but that could just as easily be a content sigh. And he lets the silence drag on for a while, his mind drifting in and out of a light doze, and if Tim were normal he might assume that Cassandra is already asleep, but they are not normal and he can feel her dark eyes on him, can sense that she isn't ready for sleep, but that she would rather be in here with him than out by herself. It makes something warm bloom in Tim's stomach, unwarranted, but not unwanted.

"You could live with me," Tim whispers, the words still sound too needy even in the twilight zone of 3:00am, where it is so easy to be truthful, maybe too easy. "If you came back," he goes on anyway, because this is Cass, and with Cass, Tim can be his whole self. She wouldn't accept anything less, would knock any walls down that Tim might try to hide behind. "You could live with me in the perch…" and he pauses for a moment, unsure, "if-if you want too."

And Cass doesn't say anything for a minute or so, long enough that Tim begins to regret his bout of pure honesty, shifting uncomfortably in bed. But for some reason it is less painful to reveal one's emotions while in the protection of the shadows, and maybe that is a bad thing, maybe that's a weakness, but it's hard not to open up to Cass _,_ his friend _,_ his _sister_ , a person that Tim can truthfully say he completely trusts.

"I want," Cass states in the same moment that Tim prepares himself to backtrack, to swallow down his words and pretend they were never spoken in the first place. "I want," she goes on, "living in Gotham with Tim, _my_ Tim," she says, curling her fingers into his own, giving a gentle squeeze that Tim has already interrupted before she says, "soon," in a whisper, "patience first. But, _soon_."

Tim closes his eyes, forces himself to breathe deeply, knowing that 'soon' is as good as a promise when it is coming from Cass' lips, but not knowing when said promise will be fulfilled. "Okay," he concedes, feeling his body begin to fully sink into sleep. "But you gotta come visit me more."

And right before Tim drops off, his mind letting go and giving into his exhaustion, he feels the tickle of Cass' short hair on his cheek and a puff of air as she whispers, almost nonexistent, " _deal_."

* * *

The first thing that Tim realizes when he blinks back to awareness is that he is stiff and sore. The second being the weight of a large arm slung around his back and holding him against the solid warmth of a person's side.

And maybe Tim should feel embarrassed, (okay, he is a bit embarrassed if he is being honest) but the nostalgia that builds in his chest wins out the war between those two emotions, leaving him to blink dazed and a bit confused for a moment. Wondering if he should feign sleep, or speak up and face the situation head on.

Bruce makes the decision for him. "It's a slow night," the man begins, his voice sounding more like Bruce than Batman, though technically both Batman and Red Robin are still on duty, staking out a warehouse on top of a nearby building, slick with rain and smelling of mildew and mold. "There hasn't been any sign of movement," B goes on, filling Tim in on what he missed when he apparently decided it was time for a rooftop siesta.

Tim knows that he should probably pull away, should shrug out of Bruce's cape and restore the designated and professional gap between them. But B isn't making any move to lift his arm from the half embrace he has Red Robin in, and Tim doesn't see a real reason to create any space between himself and the man, not when B doesn't seem to mind in the least about Tim invading his personal bubble.

This used to happen from time to time, back when Tim had been the Robin to Bruce's Batman. His overrun and packed schedule had already been something Tim had to combat with as a thirteen-year-old, running around with the Titans over in SanFran and traveling back to Gotham to fulfill his work with Batman, trying to balance his own cases and school work, along with a social life and constantly trying to appease his father at home. And well, sometimes it would all catch up with Tim. Leaving the teenager mentally and physically exhausted, he could have collapsed pretty much anywhere. And stake outs with Batman had been as good a place as any, the two alone on quiet rooftops, bored and huddling together against the Gotham weather.

And Bruce had always felt safe to Tim, the teen knew that B wouldn't let anything happen to him, so it had been easy (maybe too easy) to let his guard down and fall asleep pressed into the larger man.

The first time it happened Tim had spluttered out a rushed and embarrassed apology, afraid that he would be reprimanded for passing out while on patrol, but B had made a passing comment about it happening with the Robins prior Tim before Batman sent the boy home to sleep in a bed for a change.

It had happened more times than Tim would have liked after that, finding himself pressed to Bruce, the man's large and heavy cape wrapped around them both to keep warm against the Gotham elements, a gauntlet hand holding Tim in place so he wouldn't topple off of the building in his sleep. But it's been a long time since that little ritual has occurred, Tim not having the opportunity to accidentally fall asleep against Bruce anymore. There was just no chance of it now that Tim works alone as Red Robin and there are so many walls and unspoken things between Tim and Bruce.

"Think it's a bust?" Tim asks, his words a little muffled into B's armor, making Tim feel younger than he really is, memories of the past coming to the forefront of the teenager's mind, Tim can't help but wonder if Bruce is thinking about those same instances.

"Possibly," B answers back, his voice low but not a growl, something in-between, something only a _Robin_ is allowed to hear. It makes Tim's stomach twist with an unbidden emotion, one of longing for simpler days, when this had been allowed, when Tim was Bruce's partner and Tim was his.

The teenager lets the silence drag on for a moment, swallows hard when Bruce squeezes him around the waist in a half hug, a second later, "you need to take better care of yourself," B says, the vibration of his voice rumbling in Tim's chest.

And this is where Tim _knows_ he should pull away, should brush off Bruce's concern and try to steer the conversation back to something less personal, but Tim doesn't, can't will himself to shatter whatever he and Bruce have constructed, this little pocket of time where they are allowed to just _be_. Instead, Tim bumps his shoulder into Bruce's ribs in something like an apology before he says, "don't we all?" It's not a very good deflection or joke, but it takes some of the pressure off of Tim's chest.

B doesn't comment on that though, the man lets out a sigh, the sound making him seemed weighed down by something heavy and tiresome. Tim hopes it's not him.

"You're overworked," Bruce says, it's a clipped sentence, one that makes Tim feel like he is being scolded, and the teen must tense up because Bruce pats his unruly hair in a way of comfort, a moment later saying, "come home for a few days." The way B says it is on the verge of being an order, but not quiet, showing his concern, and leaving Tim with a choice.

Tim takes in a deep breath, holding it for a moment before he snakes an arm around B in a bout of uncertain courage, returning the half embrace to his adoptive father. Tim wants this, this feeling of _being_ Bruce's and Bruce being _his_ , it's like Tim has gotten a small taste of what used to be, of what was stolen from them, and the teen can't help but want to hold onto it, can't help wanting to clutch and cling to this feeling for as long as he possibly can. And really this could go either way, it could end up with Tim feeling even more isolated and alone, or it could make this warm feeling of nostalgia and longing stick, leaving Tim to feel whole, like he has a solid place again.

Tim blows out his breath, deciding that he is willing to take that chance, he says, an edge of a smirk lifting his voice, "a few days doesn't sound _so_ bad."

And the teen could swear he saw the hint of a smile from Bruce as the man pulled them both to their feet and said, almost too low to hear, only for Tim's ears, "let's go home."

* * *

 **So glad to have this done before my wisdom-tooth removal tomorrow. _*whew*_ ~ ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ**

 **Please tell me what you thought, I'm planning to write more with these goofballs so I need feedback. :)**

 **~Fernandidilly-yo out!**


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